


This Delicious Solitude

by Omi_Ohmy



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Bad Jokes, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Older Characters, Post-Hogwarts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-25
Updated: 2012-07-25
Packaged: 2017-11-10 17:00:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/468615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omi_Ohmy/pseuds/Omi_Ohmy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is sent to investigate Harry’s extraordinary carrots for the Prophet after whispers of cheating rock the world of competitive vegetable cultivation. But how’s he meant to get anywhere when Harry won’t even let him past the garden gate?</p>
            </blockquote>





	This Delicious Solitude

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2012 HD Smoochfest. 
> 
> I would just like to apologise in advance: I know nothing about gardening, growing vegetables, living in a village, cider or Devon. But at least I do already know how to make jam - not that anyone makes jam in this. I did try to follow treacle_tartlet's prompt, including the request for not too much schmoop: I'm not entirely sure how successful I was on that last point. :D Thanks to my lovely betas birdsofshore and evilgiraff for their time and effort, as always. Finally, the title is from The Garden by Andrew Marvell, and the lines 'But society is all but rude / To this delicious solitude.'
> 
> Disclaimer: All Harry Potter characters herein are the property of J.K. Rowling and Bloobsbury/Scholastic. No copyright infringement is intended.

**This Delicious Solitude**

Draco opened the cupboard. It was empty. He looked at the bare shelves for a moment, sighed and closed the door. Draco yawned and stretched, feeling everyone of his forty-eight years as things popped and cracked alarmingly inside him.

He had black coffee for breakfast. Or whatever you called it at this time of day. He might run out of food from time to time, but he never ran out of coffee. Some things were just a necessity.

As he drank the last dregs from his cup, Draco put the final touches on his plan for the day. He needed more money, so he had better finish his current article. Of course,'finish' meant 'start', and 'article' meant 'piece of drivel'. Merlin, but he was bored. Time was, he enjoyed writing for the _Prophet_ , but that was long ago. It had seemed fun, for a while. But then he noticed the looks people gave him when he interviewed them – like he was beneath them. It had grown wearying, the sneers and the innuendo about his past or his reliability. Almost more depressing was how his Slytherin contemporaries were treated. Each had entered the world of work with a little hope and willing to work hard. As each had encountered career dead-ends, they had all, one by one, been forced to accept that the world didn't want them.

He could have continued to fight, like Pansy had, never letting an insult go unchallenged, trying time and again to prove that she could do the work, that she was just as good as anyone else. But it didn't make any difference, so Draco had decided to do just enough to get by – after all, why be a slave to people who despised you? – and find his pleasures where he could. On days like today, with rain washing away the light outside the window, and a grumble of emptiness rolling around his stomach, he felt that perhaps his life could have, should have, been more. Whatever chance he'd had for greatness or glory though, had long since slipped from his grasp.

The other priority was food. But Draco knew where he could get that – Queenie would feed him if he timed a visit right. So writing it was. In one corner of his flat were neat piles of newspapers, which he had delivered by a collection of bedraggled owls each week. There was the _Puddlemere Echo_ , a personal favourite: the title always suggested to him that the news in its pages would all have been heard before. Alongside it sat the _Mundton Gazette_ , the _Keslingcliffe Courier_ , and about half a dozen other local papers. Draco rolled up his sleeves and picked up the two latest copies of each, and sat down with another cup of coffee to see if he could find something mildly interesting to lift. After all, he might be the _Prophet's_ agricultural correspondent, but it didn't mean he actually was going to go out to the countryside – they had mud and cows and who knew what. And he doubted he'd be able to get a properly mixed martini, either.

Two hours later, he was sat in the editor's office at the _Prophet_. Barnabas Cuffe was sitting at his desk, frowning as he read through Draco's elegantly handwritten parchment. As soon as he'd seen it his brow had furrowed: Draco consistently annoyed him by refusing to use a Printing Quill, which produced clean and ordered writing. Draco's writing was full of slopes and loops which looked antiquated in the modern wizarding work environment. Draco pulled out a cigarette and put it to his lips.

"No smoking," grunted Cuffe, without looking up. Draco stared at him, and removed his cigarette. He had actually given up years ago, but liked to annoy his editor in any little way he could.

"So, can I get cash or does it have to be a Gringotts draft?" asked Draco.

"For this piece of piss?" asked Cuffe. 'Self-Milking Cows: Five Things you Need to Know,' he read out. "This sounds like the gripes of a load of old men, not a news story, Draco."

Draco shrugged. As far as he was concerned, in the world of farming, it was the same thing. He hated writing about it, but since he'd missed one or two deadlines, he'd been stuck covering the price of grain, weather spells and animal diseases. He suppressed a grin at the memory of the weekend of debauched sex with Mark, or Simon, or whatever the Muggle's name had been, which had directly led to the last of the missed deadlines: it had been worth it. Of course, now great sex had gone the way of interesting work. That thought was enough to kill any chance of a smile. He maintained what he hoped was a look of polite attention on his face.

Cuffe sighed. "Look, we might run it. It's been a quiet week. But I'm glad you came in, there was something I wanted to talk to you about." He put Draco's parchment to one side, and leant forward in his chair. "I don't know if you've heard anything about this, but there's a potential story about Harry Potter I'd like you to cover," he said. Draco looked up in interest.

"Potter?" he asked.

"Yes. This could be a big story, Draco," Cuffe said. Draco nodded. Even all these years later, Potter could still shift papers. "I don't know how much you know about his life now, but he retired early from the Aurors seven or eight years ago, and hasn't been seen or heard of much since." Draco didn't say anything. He did know all this already, partly because, well, who didn't? And partly because he did tend to notice the name when it came up. Nothing like a bit of old schoolboy bitterness to colour how you saw the most revered wizard of your generation.

"Ever since then, he's been living in..." Cuffe looked down at the papers on his desk, and moved them aside until he found the one he was looking for. It was covered, Draco noticed, in the neat and uniform rows of a Printing Quill. Merlin, he hated the things. "Oh yes, in Bagcombe, a village in Devon. He grows vegetables–"

"Vegetables?" asked Draco.

"Yes, vegetables! And stop interrupting, Draco. Where was I? Oh yes, he grows prize-winning vegetables. Carrots are his forté, apparently. He has won," he paused to check his paper again, "first prize for long carrots at the Devon and Cornwall Wizarding Vegetable Contest for the past five years."

"I don't see what's particularly newsworthy about that. He does tend to do well in everything he tries," muttered Draco.

"Yes, well, we've had several people contact us to say that there are suspicions afoot that perhaps he is using some of his, er, special skills to bring about his success," said Cuffe.

"You mean he might be _cheating_?" asked Draco. He couldn't quite contain the glee he felt at the thought.

"Draco," said Cuffe, his voice stern. "You are not to make judgements before investigating this first. I want you to go to Potter, and see what you can find out," before Draco could say anything, Cuffe held his hand up. "He hasn't given an interview for years. I honestly don't think some history from way back is really going to make a difference now. Anyway, he testified on your behalf, if I remember correctly. You might actually stand more chance than others. Go. Don't come back until you've got something."

After a slap-up meal at Queenie's, and a quick shopping trip to top up his hip flask, Draco went home to pack. As he looked at his reflection in his bathroom mirror that night, he decided that he still looked good enough that he could hold his head up high when he met his old rival. For one, he still had his startling white-blond hair, whatever Pansy said about receding hair lines, and he knew that he suited the angles of his face better as an adult than he ever had as a child. Draco smiled as he realised that he was strangely excited: despite hating the inanity of vegetable competitions and village politics, he was drawn to the chance to perhaps dig up some dirt on Potter. It was delayed _schadenfreude_ , perhaps, but it promised to at least break the tedium of his days.

oOo

The lane was muddy, and Draco looked down at his leather shoes with sadness. They were probably ruined. And it was only his first day here. He had always thought of mud as some homogeneous whole, but he was fast discovering that it could come in dark clumps, or as watery puddles, and everything in between. Everything was wet, a cloud seemingly having descended around him so that he was walking through a damp mist.

He was staying at The Crown and Key pub in Bagcombe, and the landlady, Mrs Marjoram, was a witch, which was helpful as she had a Floo connection and didn't mind him using magic. But when he'd given her his name, he had seen the familiar stiffening of the back and quick glance away. She had mellowed slightly when she'd found out that he wanted to see Potter as the agricultural correspondent with the _Prophet_. "If it's about his veg, he might be willing to talk," she'd said in the end, looking doubtful, but giving him directions to Potter's house nonetheless.

Draco walked along messy hedges, nothing like the neat clipped bushes of London. He stopped when he got to a blue gate, as instructed. He leant over the faded, peeling paint and got his first glance of Potter's home and garden. The house was white and solid, with a low grey roof and wide windows. The garden was a riot of green and colours, some of the plants tall and wispy, other thick with flowers. It was chaotic, almost, but overall also pleasing to look at.

Draco felt a thrill as he saw Potter, for the first time in years, as he made his way towards the gate. He had changed – his shoulders were broad, and his hair was starting to grey at the temples. Yet it was still Potter, unmistakably so. Fine water droplets had collected in Potter's hair and the thick knit of his jumper, and his face was wet from the rain.

"I don't want to know," Potter called out as he approached, in a voice that seemed slightly creaky, as if not often used. "Go away, and stop bother–" he stopped as he saw who it was. "Malfoy," he said, surprise clear on his face and robbing him of words for a moment. He walked the remaining distance to the gate, and put a hand on it as he leant forward to examine Draco.

Draco felt a surge of hope: the element of surprise was going to be enough, and Potter was going to talk to him. He was going to get his interview, and he could be home and dry within a day.

Potter looked him up and down, and then his face closed down, and Draco felt his hope began to falter. He swallowed down disappointment.

"You," Potter said, the word accompanied by a pointing finger. Draco couldn't help but notice how strong and capable his hands looked. Or the dirt under the fingernails. "You are not welcome here. I know you're a journalist, and although it may have escaped your attention, I don't speak to journalists. And I especially don't speak to _you._ "

"Potter–" began Draco, but he was cut off immediately.

"Bugger off, Malfoy," said Potter.

"But I–" tried Draco again.

"I don't care, I don't want to know, and I don't want to see you again," said Potter. "Goodbye," he added, with finality, and turned to go back down towards his house.

Draco watched him walk away. He didn't care how rude Potter was: he'd had worse said to him, and he wasn't going to give up that easily. In fact, he realised that he was looking forward to this. There was no way that Draco was going to let Potter win. It had been years, but he felt the thrill of competition rush through him.

It was only when Potter disappeared back around the side of the building that Draco turned to face the muddy path. If there was one thing that he knew, it was that he didn't want to walk down it again. Well, he knew where he was going now. He pulled out his wand and Apparated back to the pub.

oOo

The next day, Draco tried again. This time he Apparated straight to the gate. The sun was out, but Draco wasn't fooled: thick mud still lined the paths and fields around. Potter was kneeling on the garden path, digging at one of the flower beds with a trowel. Draco was surprised to see Neville Longbottom, looking nothing like his school-boy self, being considerably thinner and taller than Draco remembered, sitting on a weather worn chair under one of the windows. The two men were chatting as Potter worked.

"Harry, I see you're still learning how to be a gardener," said Longbottom, his voice sounding a little petulant from where Draco was standing.

"Oh yes?" asked Potter, and although he had his back to Draco, he still got the sense that this wasn't the first time the two of them had engaged in this conversation. He couldn't quite tell if it was amusement or annoyance which coloured Potter's response. Draco waited for Longbottom's answer.

"Still learning by _trowel and error_ ," he said, wiggling his eyebrows and laughing. Potter threw a clod of earth at him.

"Your jokes get worse every time, Nev," he said, shaking his head. They both looked up at Draco's groan. Potter's face darkened immediately.

"Not you again. I told you to go away," he said. He turned back to his weeding. Longbottom stared at Draco, then looked back at Potter.

"Is that really who I think it is?" he asked.

"Unfortunately, yes. He was sniffing around yesterday, too," Potter said. He sighed, and turned to face Draco again. "What is it? What do you want?" Both men were now staring at him.

"This has nothing to do with me or you, Potter. I'm here for my job: I'm covering your local wizarding vegetable fair. I was hoping for an interview."

Potter looked at him with incredulity. Then he threw his head back and burst into laughter. Draco noticed though that Longbottom looked slightly uncomfortable. Interesting.

"I don't do interviews. And why you would think I would give you one, of all people, is beyond me–"

"Even if I'm here to ask about the vegetables? Nothing else, just about the vegetables?" interrupted Draco. "As you pointed out, why would I, of all people, be interested in your past?" It was only for a fraction of a second, but he saw Potter hesitate, his eyes widening slightly, before he answered.

"I'm still not interested, Malfoy. Now I have to ask you to go away, so I can enjoy more of Neville's terrible jokes in peace." And with that, he turned his back on Draco again.

As Draco turned away, he kept his face downcast. As soon as he had his back to Potter's house though, he smiled. He knew he could win this one, he just had to keep trying.

oOo

Draco sat on his bed, sifting through the documents he'd brought with him. He hadn't put this much effort into researching anything since he'd been at school trying to beat Granger's marks. He had every local paper article he'd been able to find about Potter, a gardening book, a map of the local area, and the newsletters from the past three years for the South Devon Magical Growers, and the entry lists to their competitions as well as the larger one Potter had won.

A few hours later, Draco had a crick in his neck but he knew exactly what he needed to do next. That evening, he headed off in search of the winner of the Second Prize in the Devon & Cornwall Wizarding Vegetable competition the last five years running. The same person who had won first prize three times before Potter had appeared on the scene: Neville Longbottom.

It had started raining again, and Draco was a little damp and bedraggled as he made his way to the small pub in Longbottom's village, which was a twenty minute walk away. He'd tried to time it right: not so early that the place was empty, but not beyond the point of rational conversation either. He scanned the room for Longbottom, and spied him at the bar, where he was stood drinking and talking to the barman. They were laughing, and as Draco watched he realised that Longbottom was telling another joke.

"Why do potatoes make good Aur– detectives?" he asked, and the barman sighed before shaking his head. "Because they keep their eyes peeled!" said Longbottom, laughing loudly at his own joke. The barman rolled his eyes but still chuckled fondly. It seemed that Longbottom may already have had a few drinks: all the better for Draco.

Draco made his way over as quickly as he could, and took a deep breath before he spoke.

"Hello, Longbottom."

"Malfoy! What are you doing here?" asked Longbottom, turning to face Draco, his mouth hanging down in both surprise and hostility.

"Sorry to intrude like this, but I was hoping to have a word with you," said Draco, as smoothly as he could. He held out a business card as he spoke. "I didn't really get a chance to speak to you before." Longbottom wiped his hand on his trousers (more dirty fingernails, Draco noticed), then took the card and eyed it suspiciously as Draco continued. "As I was trying to explain before, l'm writing a story about the world of competitive vegetable growing. I had to try Potter as he's won the past few years, but I was told that you were really the person to talk to," he said. Longbottom still hadn't looked up, so Draco decided to lay it on a little thicker. "After I heard that you were competing, I remembered that you had always excelled at Herbology at school, and I asked around. You really do have a reputation as one of the top gardening wizards in the British Isles, if not all of Europe."

Longbottom looked up at this, raising one eyebrow. Draco sensed that he may have over-egged it a little, but he could still see the flush of pride on Longbottom's face. Everyone liked to hear that their talents were recognised, always. He smiled, and Longbottom gave him a tentative smile back.

"Why don't I buy you a drink, and we can just sit down and have a little chat? I won't take any more of your time than that. How does that sound?" Draco asked, trying hard not to scare him off. He still held his breath as Longbottom thought it over, then nodded, once. He looked over at the man at the bar, and held up two fingers. Draco sighed – he was obviously going to get whatever Longbottom was drinking. With a a grunt in acknowledgement, the man poured two pints of cider. Draco hid his grimace as he paid; cider would not have been his first choice.

They sat at a table hidden at the back. This pub was a little darker and dingier than the one in Potter's village, but it was clean enough.

"To be honest, I never thought I'd see you again, Malfoy. To say that I was surprised to see you this morning would be something of an understat– understand– y'know what I mean." said Longbottom.

"Yes, our lives haven't really gone down the same paths, haven't they?" commented Draco. He took a careful sip of his drink. It was tolerable.

"I don't know," said Longbottom. "I mean, here we are. I grow vegetables, you write about them," he paused, a most unGryffindor grin on his face. "Or you're supposed to write about them. I've read your stuff you know." He lowered his voice and leant forward. "It barely scratches the surface." Despite himself, Draco was intrigued by what more Longbottom could be hinting at.

"Go on," he said. Longbottom sat back in his chair and sighed loudly. Draco wondered if the drink he'd bought was his second or third pint: there was a slight flush to his face, and his held tilted back for a moment before refocusing on Draco.

"I don't know. It's not as simple as some people think," he said. He looked at Draco. "You do know that you're 'some people', right?" Draco nodded. "Good. Well, all I'm saying is, if you've got friends in the right places, no one ever asks questions. But you're asking questions. Guess you're nobody's friend..." he trailed off, perhaps realising that this wasn't the best thing to say. Draco ignored the sting of hurt it gave him, and pressed on.

"I know that you used to always win first prize. It must have taken years to build up that expertise," he said.

"I did. Years of working out the best soil mixes and managing heating charms against bugs and shield charms against frosts," he paused, looking puzzled. "Wait, no, the other way round. Anyway, it took years. Then _he_ turned up," he hiccuped. "But Harry's a friend, I shouldn't say anything about him. He's been my friend for years," he said, but then stopped and stared into his drink. And let out a long sigh.

"It's just everything is always so bloody perfect for him," he said, drumming the sticky table with his fingers for emphasis at the end of his sentence. He looked up at Draco. "Y'know what I mean, don't you, Malfoy? Y'remember school. Never seemed to get in trouble, no matter what he did. 'Cept Snape, of course," he shuddered, and Draco suddenly remembered that his godfather had entertained them for years with his merciless persecution of Longbottom as well as Potter.

"I don't really think I can talk about our school days: I didn't exactly come out of them well," said Draco, dryly. Longbottom blinked, then threw his head back and laughed.

"Do you know, I think I like you Malfoy. You're not as stuck up as you used to be," he said. Draco flashed him the briefest of smiles, then forced himself to relax. He had, he could admit, been rather full of himself when he was younger, and besides, he needed this information from Longbottom.

"So, do you think Potter has it too easy now?" he asked.

Longbottom shook his head then shrugged. "I don't know. He's a powerful wizard, and who's ever going to say a word against him? I just... I'm not sure if his heart is in it, or not, and if it isn't, then why is he stealing all our prizes? His carrots might be longer, but mine _taste_ better."

Draco coughed and spluttered into his drink. Longbottom stared at Draco. "Sorry, I thought that was another one of your jokes," Draco said. Longbottom's face contorted into an odd expression as he thought back over what he'd said. Then his eyes widened.

"Very good, Malfoy! That reminds me of another joke, actually..."

Three jokes and another pint later, Draco managed to get Longbottom back onto the topic of growing vegetables and Potter again.

"There's nothing like it, Malfoy. Nothing like the beauty of pulling up the perfect leek, that you've grown from seed. And then if it wins a prize! Fantastic. Worth the fact that you grown thirty, forty leeks in the search for that perfect one. I love it. At school, y'know, I always enjoyed messing around with plants but it was never quite right. I might look like a sozzled old drunk right now, but I taught Herbology at Hogwarts for a while – did you know that?" Draco shook his head. "Anyway, it was ok, but I've never enjoyed anything as much as I have growing my veg. And I don't care who knows it!" He stopped to drink more cider, then sat quietly for a moment, staring into the distance. "How can he keep winning when he doesn't care, not like I do? I don't understand," he said.

By the end of the evening, Draco had almost grown to like the cider, but he had grown a little bored with Longbottom's company. He made a terribly maudlin drunk, and no matter how suggestive his titbits of information were, having to sift through the odd mix of jokes and regrets had been tiresome. Still, it had been interesting to hear that not all of Potter's friends thought that he was perfect.

oOo

This time Potter was nowhere to be seen. Tentatively, Draco pushed the gate open, half expecting to be thrown back by some defensive spell or another. Nothing happened. He walked down the path, noticing as he went all the herbs growing, their familiar scents reminding him somehow of the dry store cupboard at the back of the old Potions Classroom. He ran a hand along some soft sage leaves, the memories of Snape running through his mind strangely at odds with his surroundings. He couldn't really imagine Snape _outside_. Draco knocked at the front door and waited a few minutes, before deciding to look to see if Potter was out behind his house instead. He followed the brick path around the side of the cottage, and stopped when he saw the garden at the back.

He was at the top of some steps leading down to a broad lawn, with the house extending out in a series of large windows, the building a squat L-shape. There was a wooden table with a wide parasol and chairs near the back door; the whole garden edged with warm brick walls and overflowing beds of green leaves, with tall spurs of colour, and round flower heads swaying gently in the wind. At the back there were steps up to another garden with wide lawn paths, and beds of vegetables and flowers, all combined. One side of if was devoted to a long greenhouse. In the background was a meadow and then a mass of trees, curving gently up a soft hill.

Without the protection of tall plants around him, Draco felt more like a trespasser than ever as he made his way across the open lawn. He stopped at the top of the steps and surveyed Potter's vegetable garden. It wasn't anything like he'd been expecting it to be. There were indeed rows of cabbages and lettuces, and of a variety of leaves suggesting more vegetables growing below the ground, as well as tall rows of climbing plants. But there were also rows of sunflowers, delicately blooming sweet peas and the bright yellows, oranges, pinks and purples of many other flowers which his mind struggled to name. Almost lost amongst all the plants was Potter, a wide hat on his head, kneeling by one bed, pointing his wand at a plant and whispering.

When he finished, he turned round to face Draco. "I don't remember inviting you back here," he said. "You are persistent, aren't you?" he sighed. "I still don't have anything to say to you, you know."

"Really," said Draco. "Even though I just saw you pointing your wand at that plant? I could walk away now and write about how you cheat to make your plants grow." Whatever Draco was expecting in response to this, it wasn't the warm laugh Potter gave.

"You think that's what I was doing?" he shook his head, still smiling, but then fixed Draco with a steely look. "You've just revealed two things about yourself. One, you don't know anything about magical gardening, despite those years of Herbology and your so-called 'profession', and two, you've heard the rumours about my 'cheating'." He paused, and raised an eyebrow. "Have I missed anything out?"

Draco stared back in frustration. "Well, whatever you were doing looked pretty suspicious to me. And I've got to write _something_ to go in the _Prophet_ ," he said in the end. Potter sighed and shook his head.

"I don't know what's more insulting: that people believe I'm cheating, or that they send _you_ out to cover the story." Draco didn't say anything. In a way, this was home territory for him: he really had heard just about every insult and insinuation going about both him and his job, and he honestly didn't care. He waited it out. No one liked a silence.

"Look, I was vanishing some pests and their eggs, ok? Any wizard with a garden, let alone a vegetable patch, would do the same; it's not breaking any rules. Now just go away, Malfoy. Unless you'd care to get your precious self dirty and give me a hand, you're not welcome," Potter said, turning away again.

"Fine," said Draco, rolling up his shirt sleeves. He was determined to win this one – even if it meant getting dirty. "Where can I start?" Potter turned back and stared at him.

"I didn't actually mean– oh, why not," he said. He pointed to the far corner of the garden, where there was a heap of grass cuttings and another of various garden refuse. "That all needs to be put onto the compost heap, one layer of each, until it's all gone," he paused, and smiled slowly. "You could do it with magic, but for some reason it really doesn't work as well as doing it manually. Use the fork you'll find there. And no cheating," he grinned.

Draco gritted his teeth and glared at Potter before walking to the compost heap. He took the cover off, and grimaced. Aware that Potter was watching, he picked up the fork and began. It was hot, and Draco soon wished that today was grey and drizzly rather than sunny. The sweat began to soak his shirt, until he could feel it clinging to his back. His skin felt heated, with no shelter from the sun. But still Draco went through the motions of stabbing the fork into a pile, moving the load up to the compost heap, and depositing it there. He continued until his shoulders ached and his hands were chafed and bruised from the solid wood of the fork. Every now and then he would glance over at Potter, who had returned to his examination of each plant, and was moving slowly down the line. Once or twice, he caught Potter looking his way, but he turned back to his spell work as soon as he saw Draco looking.

As the last forkful hit the compost heap, Draco grunted with relief, then stopped himself, horrified that such a sound had escaped him. He was too hot to care for very long though, and put down the fork with satisfaction. He'd won this one, he knew he had. He didn't need to see Potter's expression to know it.

Draco looked down at his sweaty, filthy hands, and then searched for something to wipe them on. Giving up, he suppressed a wince as he wiped them dry on his trousers, which were already ruined. He turned, and found Potter looking at him from beneath the brim of his hat, like a man watching a well in the Sahara. His gaze was so intense, Draco felt a rush of satisfaction after all. Ha! He'd managed to surprise Potter and now he had his attention. _Finally,_ his mind whispered, and for a second he remembered the childish efforts of his school days.

Draco saw then that Potter was holding a glass of water, which he held out with a small smile.

"I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it," Potter murmured. "Thank you."

Draco drank the water all in one go. It was cold and welcome – now that he had stopped, he could feel the heat radiating out of him. Along with half his bodyweight in sweat. Potter was staring at him again. Merlin, he must look a mess. He ran a hand through his hair, and it was damp with sweat, sticking to his head. Potter was still staring at him, but he looked away when Draco's eyes met his.

"Seeing as you've helped me out, I'll give you a bit of my time," he said. "How about a tour of my garden?" Draco nodded, and winced as his back twinged. This had better be a gold-plated tour: his efforts were worth no less. Potter's eyes widened. "Merlin, you really aren't used to hard work, are you?" Draco scowled.

"Any genuine concern you might have for me or gratitude for the time I've given is somewhat betrayed by your general air of amusement, Potter," Draco said. "But yes, I'd like to have a tour and thank you for the offer."

Potter led him up and down the grass paths, naming all the fruit and vegetables growing in each separate plot. He explained how some of the flowers he grew encouraged or discouraged the various insects and creatures of the garden, depending on their ability to help or harm his vegetables. Down the right-hand side of the garden was a long run of raised beds, and Potter stopped by these with extra pride. He ran his hands along the bouncy fronds of the plants.

"These," he announced, almost tenderly, "these are my long carrots." He pointed to the wooden sides of the bed, and ran his finger down in a straight line. "They grow all this distance down."

Draco looked up in surprise. "All the way? How _long_ are these carrots exactly?"

"Yet again revealing your shoddy research skills, Malfoy," said Potter, shaking his head, the hint of smile hovering on his lips. "Long carrots end up at least two feet in length," he explained. "Mine, of course, are much longer," he added. Draco stared at him, and narrowed his eyes. His glow of satisfaction from having surprised Potter was fading.

"Length isn't everything you know, Potter," he said, thinking of Longbottom's words.

"I don't think my carrots are going to need great technique, to be honest," answered Potter, keeping a straight face. Draco took a breath to reply, then stopped and laughed at the absurdity of the statement. Potter winked at him then smiled, which had the unfortunate effect of making Draco blush, like he had in his more youthful days whenever a good looking man had paid him some attention. It was just so strange, talking to Potter in this relaxed way. Potter's smile fell away a little. Maybe he felt it too.

"Sorry, I must spend too much time with Nev. My sense of humour seems to be permanently stuck at his level. It's the price I pay for getting to talk plants the rest of the time. And for his superb specialist knowledge, too." Draco nodded, and stored that little bit of information away. After speaking to both of them, he wondered exactly what the relationship between the two old friends was like now.

"You seem pretty knowledgeable yourself," Draco said, and this time it was Potter who blushed.

"I've picked up a fair amount over the years, I suppose," he said. "Actually, it's quite nice being the one who does the explaining for once. Or just having someone else to talk to about all this. Ron and Hermione aren't interested, and when I've tried to explain to them in the past they just ask the wrong questions." He looked up at Draco, an appraising look on his face. "You haven't done too badly, actually," he said, and Draco smiled at the compliment.

They visited the greenhouse, and Potter insisted he try a small, red tomato. It exploded in Draco's mouth with wet warmth and seeds; the intense burst of flavour made him close his eyes and shiver. When he opened them Potter was watching but turned away quickly, busying himself with picking some more tomatoes. He filled a small basket with them and pressed it into Draco's hands, whilst muttering, "Take them, you obviously appreciate them," without meeting Draco's eyes.

After that, Potter showed him the network of spells, some hovering over the garden and others sinking into the soil: charms against pests, ones to regulate the soil temperature, others to shield plants from too much sun or rain. The whole thing looked hugely complex, and Draco was impressed. He looked at Potter and wondered how it could be possible to care more about the plants than he did.

"It sounds like you've been talking to Nev," Potter said. Draco realised he might have said his last thought aloud and froze in panic. Potter turned to him, dawning horror on his face. "You have, haven't you? What else have you been doing? You're not here to cover the Vegetable Fair at all, are you?" he said slowly. Draco felt his face betray him in that moment, as his skin heated with the unexpected guilt that rose through him at Potter's words.

Potter glared at him and nodded. "Oh yes, I see it now. Why did I let myself think I could in any way trust the man who broke my nose and taunted me for years at school? I can't believe that I let myself think for one minute that someone was really interested in anything other than a juicy story. You're just like all the others, aren't you? Just a journalist after some angle on Harry Potter." He paused, eyes flashing. "I don't appreciate you sneaking around looking for dirt on me," he added, his voice turning cold, harsh. "Go home, Malfoy. You've got more than any other reporter has, so you can just leave me alone now. I don't want to see you again."

"But—"

"No! I mean it. Go away!" said Potter. Draco gave him one last long look, hoping to see some chance of redemption, but all he could see was anger and disappointment. It was time for him to go. He hastily got his wand out and Apparated back to the Crown and Key.

oOo

He walked into the pub, still clutching the small basket of tomatoes Potter had forced on him. He was greeted by a hoot from behind the bar.

"Well look at you!" Draco looked up, still feeling a little dazed by his time with Potter. "You've been busy, haven't you!" added Mrs Marjoram

"You could say that, Mrs Marjoram," Draco said.

"Oh, call me Madge, please," she said. "So where were you?"

"Well, Mrs Marj– Madge," Draco corrected himself quickly, "I've been at Potter's, actually," he said, then held up the tomatoes. "Helping him, in his garden."

"Is that so? Well, well, that's a turn up for the books. What do you say about that, hey, Nige?" Draco realised then that Mr Marjoram was sitting at the bar, a pint already in his hand. He turned to give Draco an appraising look.

"Very interesting. There's not many who get in there, and no journalists as far as I know," he said. "Caught the sun too, didn't you? You must have been there a fair while." Draco stepped back as Mr Marjoram pulled out his wand. "I'm not going to hurt you! I'll just do something for your sunburn," he said. "If that's ok with you, of course," he added.

Draco could feel his skin, tight and hot across his cheeks, and thought about it for a moment, then nodded. The sun must have got to him if he was willing to have some near-stranger point their wand at his face. But nevertheless, he stood still, closed his eyes, and waited. Almost immediately he felt a cool tingle spread across his face, and when he raised a hand to feel his cheeks, the soreness was gone. He opened his eyes in surprise; that was an extremely good bit of healing magic. "There you go," said Mr Marjoram as he turned back to his pint. "All better now."

"Thank you," Draco said. He rubbed his face again. "That really was well done," he added.

"A pleasure," said Mr Marjoram, with a little bow of his head. He looked up at his wife. "He's got good manners, this one. Not like his friend."

" _Potter_ doesn't have good manners?" asked Draco, incredulous at the suggestion. Potter had always been hotheaded, but, Snape excepted, he always seemed to be well-liked by teachers, and Draco had always assumed that he was actually at least fairly well socialised.

"Hush now," said Madge, looking quickly at Draco before tapping her husband on the arm. "He's a hero, isn't he. If he wants to hide away in his house, that's up to him."

"Wins him no friends around these parts," Mr Marjoram grumbled, but, seeing the look of warning on Madge's face he picked up his pint and didn't say any more.

Wearily, Draco made his way upstairs to his room. No matter what was sore or aching, he had to get every bit of information, including every impression he'd had of Potter, down on parchment while it was still clear in his mind.

oOo

Draco was thoughtful, and a little less sore, as he sat on his bed after a hot bath that evening. From his conversations with Longbottom and the Marjorams, he'd learnt that there was some local resentment focused on Potter, based on his perceived rejection of local society, and also on his wins as a relative newcomer to gardening. So far, he hadn't seen any evidence to support or disprove the actual allegations of cheating.

When he'd written down every little thing he could remember about his time with Potter, he'd been struck by just how unexpected it had all been. Potter had looked so... relaxed, and at home in his surroundings. It was hard to reconcile this adult, mature Potter with his memories of his schoolboy rival. But then he wasn't exactly the boy he'd been then either. Draco hadn't been able to stop himself from noticing the way that Potter's eyes had glinted in the bright sunlight, or how his shoulders filled his clothes so satisfyingly.

Absent-mindedly, he popped one of the tomatoes Potter had given him into his mouth. He had to close his eyes as the fresh, tart, taste overwhelmed him. It really was one of the best things he had tasted in a long time; everything else just seemed so insipid in comparison. In his mind's eye, for some reason, he could see Potter staring at him as he ate it, his gaze intense. Draco opened his eyes and shook off the memory, turning back to his notes instead.

He had enough information to put together a half-decent interview with Potter, but he knew it wasn't enough. After so many years of not caring about his job, suddenly Draco wanted to do this one thing well. Everyone would read an article about Potter, whatever it said. He didn't want to write a piece of drivel: he wanted to write something he could be proud of. He needed to find out more about who Potter was now, and see if he couldn't get to the bottom of the cheating story too.

He told himself this was the reason he wanted to go back; his mind shied away from thinking about how Potter's gaze had made him blush, or how fascinating he'd found him, before he ruined everything.

oOo

Draco stood by the gate, his hands brushing the flaking paint and flicking small pieces of it off. Since living in London, he had never really paid that much attention to the weather, but here it was more than a backdrop and every day had been so shockingly different. He looked up and considered the options. The sky overhead featured enough cloud for it to feel cooler between the bursts of sunshine; but it wasn't raining yet, so Potter would probably be in his garden. Taking a deep breath he opened the gate and headed straight there, and spied Potter at work amongst his vegetables.

Potter was picking courgettes, turning each in his hand slightly before removing it from the plant and placing in a large basket. Draco watched him for a minute, seeing clearly for the first time just how calm and methodical he was. It didn't tally at all with his memories of an impetuous boy, always behaving as if the rules had no meaning for him. Although he could see this seclusion as a way of Potter absenting himself from the rules, too. But then he could also see that this was a man, not a boy, in front of him, tanned and slightly grizzled, strong and healthy from all this time outdoors. In comparison he felt like a pale weakling.

"What do you want? Again?" asked Potter, turning to face him, a frown on his face and his shoulders set in tension.

Draco cleared his throat. "I've written some notes about your garden, and I'd just like to clarify a few points," he said as smoothly as he could manage. For some reason, he felt hugely nervous, even though he knew now that it was unlikely that Potter would hex him. Potter glared at him. "And also, I– you were generous, yesterday, to talk to me as much as you did. I'm sorry my time here finished the way it did. But you can't get offended that I have talked to other people too: what kind of a journalist would I be if I didn't?"

"I don't care what kind of journalist you are, I do care about my privacy. And Nev is one of my best friends, I hate the idea of him mouthing off—" Potter stopped short. "It's none of your business. It's none of _anyone's_ business," he said.

It started to rain, heavy drops leaving marks of dark colour on Draco's shirt. He looked up at the sky, glimpses of blue sky visible beyond the heavy clumps of cloud, then back at Potter. "Please?" he asked. "Take this chance to get your side across," Draco added, then held his breath as his clothes began to stick to his skin with wet, and the wide leaves of the plants around them bowed and bobbed under the pressure of increasingly large and noisy raindrops.

"You really won't go away, will you?" Potter said with a sigh. He bent to pick his basket of vegetables. "You might as well come in, as you'll just be here again tomorrow otherwise, won't you?" Draco nodded, then followed Potter down to the house. They ran to escape the sudden downpour, arriving at the house a little breathless and bumping into each other at the door. Draco pulled back from the heat of Potter's body, which he could feel even through their wet clothes.

He ducked his head under the low doorway, and they stepped through a small mud room, where Potter removed his boots and Draco his own mud-stained shoes. He followed Potter through to a large kitchen, its stone floor cold through his thin socks. He could see rain, green bushes and trees and of course, flowers out of the windows, the kitchen running alongside the garden. It felt traditional, with a fine Welsh dresser, an oak table, and a large range. At the far end were a sofa and an armchair positioned around a fire. Draco walked to one of the windows and stared out at the garden. Despite the warmth of the room, Draco found himself shivering as his wet clothes stuck to his skin. Potter disappeared out of the room for a moment, then reappeared with some towels and robes.

"Here," he said, and threw a towel and a robe over to Draco. Draco began to rub through his hair, but he froze when he looked up to see Potter stripping his t-shirt off. He was stood by the range and was pulling his t-shirt above his head, revealing a stretch of skin. He was paler across his chest and stomach, but he was firm with muscle too, with a scattering of black hairs and armpits which just looked... edible, warm-coloured nipples lying just so across his— Draco blinked, and returned to towelling his hair with extra vigour. He had not just sized Potter up. Well, maybe he had, just a little bit, but it had been a long time since he'd seen a man near naked, especially one so attractive. Oh for Merlin's sake, this was ridiculous. He had a job to do.

While Potter – now thankfully dressed in some green wizarding robes – had his back turned to fill a kettle then set it to heat, Draco quickly took off his own wet shirt and shrugged on the robes Potter had provided him. They were a deep blue, and made of some kind of a linen which wasn't too uncomfortable on the skin. He cast a quick drying charm on his shirt, and slung it over he back of one of the kitchen chairs. Draco wondered exactly how he'd gone from being growled at in the garden, to stood here, in Harry Potter's kitchen, wearing his spare robes. It had happened too fast to make any sense to him. There was an awkward silence as Potter made tea, during which the room grew darker as the rain outside fell with increasing intensity, the sound of it drumming against the windows until it almost drowned out the sounds of Potter as he moved around the kitchen.

They sat down at the table to drink their tea, the table providing a much needed distance between the two of them. In the end it was Potter who broke the silence.

"I thought you would be beet-red today, after all that time in the sun," he said.

"So did I, but it turns out that Mr Marjoram casts a pretty nifty skin-healing charm," said Draco.

"Oh, yes, of course," said Potter, with an absent-minded air.

"Of course?" asked Draco. "What do you mean?"

"Oh, didn't you know?" Potter said, then laughed. "I'm sure you think that Bagcombe's inhabitants are all country bumpkins obsessed with growing carrots and drinking cider. Marjoram is a Healer at St Mungo's."

Draco could feel his face flush and he felt a little foolish: he had been fairly dismissive of the people he'd met here. "Oh," he said. He looked away from Potter. Draco didn't enjoy this squirming feeling of having misjudged a situation: it felt too close to those frightening years when he found out just what his father's vision for his life really meant. Trust it to be Potter who brought those memories back. He pushed them to one side, and fished out a piece of folded parchment from his pocket.

"I've got some questions here. Do you think I could ask some of them?" he asked, his voice low to match the quiet of the room and the gentle thudding of the rain falling against the window panes.

"I– I've thought about what you said, the other day," began Potter. He paused before continuing. "I thought about you being the one person who wouldn't be interested in my past." Draco shrugged. He'd never been one for Pottermania, unlike most of the rest of the wizarding world. Having actually met Potter, the public's obsession with him had always seemed slightly ridiculous. Potter swallowed, then continued, "I'll answer your questions, as long as I can reserve the right to pass on any which I don't want to answer." Draco took a moment to make it look like he was thinking it over, but they both knew he'd accept these terms: this would be the scoop of the century. He began to nod, but then he did think of something more to ask.

"Can we get a photographer in?" he asked, but Potter shook his head straight away. "Well then, how about if I take a photo of you, in your garden? I'd have to come back another day," he said quickly. Potter looked at him, his brow hovering on the edge of a frown, then nodded.

"Ok," he said. Draco let out a breath he wasn't aware that he'd been holding. Potter gestured towards the list. "There aren't hundreds of questions on there, are there?" he asked. Draco shook his head. He'd spent a long time the night before getting these questions just right.

"There are four," he said. "And none of them are about the war, or your personal life." Potter raised an eyebrow. "You don't think that you're the only one who gets tired of being asked about things which happened a long time ago? You may be noticed everywhere you go, but I bet you are never turned away from places, and I bet before you retired you never found yourself stuck in a dead end at work." Draco stopped, and sighed. He ran a hand through his still damp hair. "Sorry, that's just my own issues. Forget I said anything."

Potter eyed him warily. "You did make some spectacularly awful choices, Malfoy," he said quietly. "Whatever my experiences of fame have been, I don't think you can compare it with having to face the consequences of your actions."

"I was only a boy!" said Draco in a strained voice. "Merlin, I'm sick of these sanctimonious speeches. My point is that it doesn't matter how often I say sorry, or how much my family have paid, or how I've lived my life: I'll always just be judged on a few short years of my life." He was breathing hard and fast now, his anger driving him to say words he had kept locked inside for a long time. There was just something about Potter which had always touched him in a way that bypassed rational thought.

Potter blinked back at him. Instead of the heated words he expected though, Potter sighed, and poured them both some more tea. "We were all so young, and it was a long time ago. We don't have to go over this old ground again, do we?" he said quietly. "Although," he added, "I've never heard one of these apologies." He looked up expectantly at Draco.

"Oh for... Ok, Potter, if that's what it takes. I'm sorry I was a bit of an arsehole at school. I'm sorry I broke your nose, and I'm sorry I called Granger a Mudblood," his voice wavered, and he looked down. "Actually, I'm the most sorry about that. I never really understood just how ridiculous all that pureblood crap was," he finished, and looked up. Potter was staring at him, a strange expression in his eyes.

"I'm sorry I cut you with that spell. There are only two things I regret in my life, and that's one of them. Both were about acting without thinking," Potter said all of a sudden, in a shaky voice. Draco almost dropped his cup in surprise; some slopped over the edge and onto his front, the heat making him start, and dark stains spreading where it fell. Potter was apologising, to him? "And I don't think that you're all bad, or ever were. I haven't since the night Dumbledore... It's why I testified on your behalf. I knew... I knew that you weren't a killer, whatever else you were."

Potter paused, and sighed. "You did some terrible things, Malfoy, but I guess that you weren't just your actions. I know you were scared, too." He looked up, seeking Draco's eyes. "You're right, you were just a boy. And so was I."

They looked at each other like they were two strangers. Draco took a sip of his tea. It was hot, and it soothed him. He cleared his throat. "Now we've got that all out of the way, shall we start?" he said. Potter looked at him, and Draco got the impression that he wanted to ask something. But instead he shook his head slightly, then nodded, decisively. Draco looked down at the list, although he knew already what was written there. "How did your interest in gardening begin?" he asked.

Potter smiled, slowly and broadly, and sat back in his chair. "Nice question," he murmured. He glanced over at the windows overlooking the garden. "I used to live in a house in London," _with his wife_ , thought Draco. She had long since faded from the story of Harry Potter's life, and he wondered what had happened to her. "We– I had a small garden, which was quite dark but there was also a roof garden, tiny but sunny. At first it was a hobby, something to do when I got home from work. I grew flowers, hundreds of flowers. Seeing all that colour bursting out in the a grey little corner of the city, I realised I'd found one way of making my life a little brighter," Potter's eyes were far away as he talked. "And they made her happy." He was quiet for a moment, and Draco sat and waited. Interrupting would only stop Potter, he knew that. "It's a miracle anything grew at all, at first. I didn't have a clue what I was doing. After a few years I started growing fruit and vegetables in pots. You know, strawberries, tomatoes, peppers, courgettes. Courgette flowers look lovely in a pot," he said. "I grew enough to start sharing with friends and family, and the children enjoyed it too," he sighed heavily and looked at Draco. "You've got me to talk about my family, after all," he said.

"Tell me more about growing vegetables, then," said Draco gently.

Well, when I retired about seven years ago, I bought this place, partly for the space to develop a proper garden. I... I was divorced, too, and I needed somewhere with space for the kids to stay," he paused, looking pained. "Don't put that in, please."

"I won't," said Draco. "I understand."

Potter shot him a confused but grateful look. "I'm not sure why, but I believe you," he said, slowly. Draco swallowed back the surge of emotion that simple declaration of trust brought with it, and concentrated on listening. "I planted out the garden I'd always wanted. Suddenly going from a few pots to a much larger plot was a bit of an experience. Things grow differently with more space, and it's easier in some ways. But then you've got more creatures too. And just so many more plants too, and how they spread and grow and need care to consider." He paused, and smiled softly. "But now I'm happy. I like spending most of my time outdoors, I like working with my hands, I like being by myself, and I like seeing things grow," Potter said, then looked at Draco expectantly, his eyes bright and a conveying a slight challenge.

Draco was silent for a moment, caught in the look he was receiving, then he moved his eyes down to the list again. "What makes you passionate about growing vegetables, in particular?" he asked, looking up, genuinely curious about the answer.

"I like being in my garden, which as you've seen is a mix of flowers and vegetables; the vegetables to me are just as beautiful as the flowers. I think the thing I like best though, is being able to eat food that I've grown myself. I don't like depending on others, and this is the ultimate in independence," he said. Draco felt strangely touched, as if he'd been granted insight into something far more personal than details of Potter's past. "Plus everything tastes so much better," said Potter. "You enjoyed those tomatoes, yesterday, didn't you?" he asked. Draco nodded mutely. He really had. There was a pause, as Potter waited for a comment, or the next question.

"Do you enjoy cooking, then, if you like growing what you eat?" asked Draco. "Sorry," he added quickly, "That's an extra question, I was just wondering." Potter nodded.

"That's fine, I don't mind answering this one. I do enjoy cooking, I had to learn when I moved here anyway. I make lots of fresh-tasting things, lots of salads and sorbets in the summer, then roasted veg and stews in the winter. And cakes. I like cakes," he added with a rueful smile. "It's lucky I work so hard in the garden otherwise I'd be huge by now."

Draco smiled obligingly. Potter certainly looked fit enough, he thought, then quashed the thought before he returned to the memory of those wonderful warm nipples. He cleared his throat again.

"What led you to competing then? It sounds as if you would be content with just growing your vegetables and hiding away from the world here. Why face the scrutiny of others?" he asked. "And also, I have to ask, why carrots? What is so special about them?" Draco had reached the third question on his list, the one about competing, slightly expanded in light of the answers already given, but it was his fourth which he was anxious about asking.

"I know I must seem like a hermit here, but there is one thing that I've always enjoyed about being with other people, ever since Hogwarts," Potter said. This time his look of challenge was unmistakable. Draco raised an eyebrow. "You can answer this question yourself, you know," Potter said, and then he sat back and waited.

Draco was puzzled, and thought about what he could be. What part of Potter's time at school could he possibly have any insight into? And then he understood, and he smiled.

"You grow your long carrots purely to satisfy your competitive urges?" he asked, incredulous that this could be true, and yet certain that this would be Potter's answer

"Yes," said Potter, confirming Draco's guess. "When I first moved here I spent a lot of time with Neville. He helped me set up this garden. And he had such passion for competing, for growing the perfect carrot, or onion, or leek. So I decided to have a go at it. I won second prize my first two years of competing—"

"And first prize for the next five," finished Draco.

"Yes, and every year it's the same. There's some banter between the two of us, he tries to kill a few brain cells with his jokes, but the desire to beat him burns like a fire in me, and I tend my vegetables to the best of my abilities, and win," he paused, and looked warily at Draco. "It's that simple, I'm afraid to say."

"Is it just Longbottom you want to beat, then?" asked Draco, fascinated by this insight into how Potter's mind worked.

"Yes," admitted Potter with a blush. "And I'm afraid that's the answer to 'Why carrots?' as well. They're what Nev's the best at growing. And their length is just so... obvious. But in truth, I– I seem to need someone to focus on, to really bring out my sense of competition. I'm not sure if–" he stopped, and bit his lip slightly as if to prevent any further words from escaping.

"If...?" prompted Draco.

"If it's not because that's how it was, at school, with you," Potter whispered. "And if I'm honest, it's still not as exhilarating as chasing the snitch, as beating you was." Potter was staring into his cup, and he looked horrified. "I can't believe that I just admitted that," he muttered.

"Well, thrilling as gardening is, it's not flying, is it?" said Draco, desperately clutching at an explanation which didn't involve him. He was a little shocked at the thought that Potter was largely driven by the memory of their youthful rivalry. Potter looked up, and stared at him, a sad look in his eyes.

"Maybe not," he said, then looked back down. They sat in awkward silence, Draco trying not to think about what Potter's words meant, and squirming as he looked at his final question. This one was going to be interesting, and there wasn't a right time to ask, so he decided to just go for it.

"How would you counter the allegations that you have used extra magic to ensure your success in competition?" he asked. Potter's head snapped back up. "You've as near as admitted that you would win, by any means necessary."

"I'm not a cheat!" Potter said, his voice louder than it had been all morning. "As I remember it, you were the one who wasn't too particular about how he won. Or attempted to," he added.

"But we're not here to talk about me," answered Draco, quietly. He watched as Potter silently counted to ten, or recited the alphabet, or whatever it was he did to calm himself down.

"All I can say if that I play by the rules, and that I just work really hard at growing fantastic vegetables," he said in the end.

"And that's it, that's your defence?" asked Draco.

"Yes," said Potter. "Unless you can do better," he added. Draco rolled his eyes.

"Not really my job," he said. "But the way it looks to me, as an outsider, is that it's just a bit of gossip, fuelled by those jealous of your success, or who feel that somehow you consider them beneath you." Potter looked crestfallen.

"People really think that about me?" he asked. Draco sighed. How could Potter not know this, and why did he have to be the one to break it to him?

"As far as I can see, you hide away here, never speak to anyone, and then just swan in each year, and, in the eyes of the people who live here, steal first prize from someone they like. Even if his jokes are terrible."

"Oh," said Potter, and he stared back into his empty tea cup again. His shoulders sagged. "I guess it's just the price I have to pay for my privacy," he said, and then he looked up at Draco. "I'm not sure if this interview with you will help, but I've got to do something, I guess." Draco shrugged. He wasn't sure either.

"I shouldn't take up any more of your time, Potter," said Draco, putting down his cup and looking out of the window. "It's stopped raining now."

"Wait, don't go yet, let me get you something to eat," Potter said, rushing through the words. "Give you a taste of why I enjoy growing things myself." Draco sat back, secretly relieved that Potter was giving him an excuse to stay. He knew he should leave now, but he wanted another glimpse of the man he'd talked to so easily, the day before in the sunshine.

Potter quickly fetched a loaf of bread – which looked suspiciously like he may have baked it himself, that morning – a butter dish, a jar of jam and some plates, spoons and knives. He unscrewed the jam jar lid, then looked up at Draco.

"Before you have this on bread, you should taste it on its own. I made this jam from raspberries grown in the garden."

Potter's eyes fixed on him as he leant across the table with a spoon laden with shiny jam, tiny seeds visible within. A strange silence took hold, as Potter waited, uncertain, for Draco to comply. Draco held out his hand to take the spoon. He hesitated, as something about Potter's hopeful patience pushed him instead to close his eyes, lean forward and open his mouth. His hand dropped to his side. Draco heard Potter's surprised intake of breath, and the world paused for a moment as neither moved.

And then Draco felt the cold clang of metal against his teeth, and he forgot that he was sitting there being fed by Potter as he tasted the fresh, sweet tang of raspberries, familiar and yet surprising in its intensity. He opened his eyes to find a pair of green eyes focused solely on him. He swallowed, again, and this time it had nothing to do with the jam.

The room swam a little around him, and it took a moment to refocus while Potter busied himself with making thick slabs of bread and butter with jam. He slid a plate over to Draco, who could still feel the heat in his cheeks from... whatever that moment had been.

Then he sat through the torture of eating with Potter, watching his white teeth clamp down on the bread, watching his Adam's apple bob under tanned skin and dark stubble as he swallowed, watching him suck his fingers clean of sticky jam.

As soon as he had finished eating, Draco stood, flustered. "I'll return your robes when I come back to take the photos," he said, "Thank you for talking to me, and for the food." Then made his way out to the garden as quickly as he could. He needed some time and space to go through the interview, he decided, ignoring the other questions bubbling up in his mind.

oOo

He had read through his notes twice now, but he kept coming back to the image of green eyes, taut nipples, a slow smile spreading across a tanned face. He was _not_ supposed to find Potter attractive. He had ignored Potter's existence successfully for years, during the endless photos of his wedding, of him at various commemorative ceremonies or receiving yet another honour from his Auror work. He had never looked at Potter in that way, and yet now, it was all he could think about.

During another long hot bath, Draco pondered it all. He may also have taken a moment or two to have a leisurely wank, thinking of Potter pulling his t-shirt off over his head as he did so. What was the harm in that? It had been the most exciting thing he'd seen in a while, after all. He also thought through his interview and what he wanted to write. There was a little niggling feeling, in the pit of his stomach, that there was still one more detail for him to collect. Something was missing from Potter's story, he just knew it. If he could get a closer look at his garden, he might just work out what it was.

Somehow, three hours later, this had developed into a full fledged conviction that he had to see Potter's garden at night. Draco had stopped ignoring his gut reaction after he'd realised that if he'd listened to that little voice inside of him which whispered 'run away, run away!' during the war, his life might have turned out a little better. This, however, he could concede was probably madness. He had decided that he didn't want to approach from the house, but from the woods the other side of Potter's vegetable patch. That way he could have a snoop around while Potter slept. He hoped.

Feeling faintly ridiculous, yet tingling at the thought of what he was about to do, Draco dressed in Potter's robe again – it was the darkest thing he had – and quickly transfigured a black hat to pull over his hair. He closed his eyes and concentrated hard on the meadow, near the edge of the trees. He had no desire to splinch himself. He took a deep breath, and Apparated.

The woods were dark, and things moved, reminding Draco of his fear as an eleven year old serving his detention in the Forbidden Forest. He moved as quietly as he could, down the gentle slope of the meadow towards Potter's garden. Hearing what sounded like a voice, Draco froze for a moment. He listened intently, but couldn't quite make out what it was beyond the sound of the wind in the trees. As he crept closer he suddenly realised that there was light coming from beyond the bushes of berries separating meadow from garden. Finally, he moved down, edging towards the trees which ran alongside the meadow, and clambered up onto a low limb to get a better view.

There, below him, was Potter, sat on a folding chair, with a few lanterns bobbing gently in the air and a gramophone running alongside him. Draco strained to hear what was playing, but couldn't quite make it out. He climbed down from the tree and moved closer, until he was crouched down behind the bushes, listening to his own heartbeat and the strains of music, snatches of words floating out into the dark night _...cauldron...hot strong love..._ He sniggered. It was that silly old crooner his mother had liked. What was her name? Celestial Something.

"I know you're there, Malfoy," came Potter's amused voice from through the leaves. "You may as well come out." Draco pulled off his hat – he knew how ridiculous he looked in it –and reluctantly stood up. He glared at Potter, who laughed. "I think you'll find that _I'm_ the one to be annoyed here," he said. Frustration flared through Draco. He felt like a stupid child again.

"Sorry to disturb you," he said, stiffly.

"Disturb me?" said Potter. "Don't you mean spy on me? That's what you were doing, isn't it?" Draco looked down at his shoes. They really were beyond all hope now; the field had been pretty saturated after all the rain. "I don't care though," said Potter. "For goodness sake, come through and talk to me like we're just two normal wizards. Draco looked up.

"We're not though, are we?" he said. Potter shrugged, then stood and walked towards the bushes, moving his wand until a gap appeared. Draco stepped through. Potter looked over in the direction of the gramophone.

"Well, here you have it. The secret of my success," he said.

"I don't understand," said Draco, a little lost. Potter sighed.

"I play music to my carrots – well, to all my veg – every night. I think they like it. It helps them grow," he explained.

"Really?" asked Draco. "That just seems a little—"

"Odd, weird, strange?" supplied Potter. Draco stared at him.

"Well, yes, actually. But... this does mean that I was right," he said, and Potter looked at him steadily until he elaborated. "I had this feeling that there was one more bit to your story. It's why I came here tonight–"

"To spy," interrupted Potter.

"—Yes, to spy," continued Draco, gritting his teeth. "I just had this gut feeling," he finished, a little lamely.

"I was hoping to see you again, but I didn't think it would be like this," Potter said, but Draco didn't respond. Potter's words made him feel uncomfortable. Potter stood as if uncertain for a moment, then turned and transfigured his chair into a wide blanket. "Now you're here, you might as well have a drink with me," he said, lightly but with resolve, and Draco hesitated but then nodded shyly.

Sitting in the cool of the night, with his arms around his knees and drinking a rather good firewhisky, with constellations bright above them, Draco decided that maybe being caught wasn't so bad, after all. He glanced over at Potter, who had his eyes closed and was lying back, his hands interlocked behind his head, his mouth moving silently to the words of the song playing. _Let me be your sugar quill... I'll write a message on your heart..._ Draco laughed.

"So you know all the words," he said, and Potter opened his eyes and gave him a sheepish smile.

"They do seem to like Celestina Warbeck the best," he said. "I've listened to all her albums so many times now, I can't help but sing along sometimes." They were silent, listening to the crackling sound of an old warbler, singing of love and, apparently, encouraging carrots to grow. When Draco looked over again, Potter was watching him. "I didn't think you'd be like this," Potter said. "So relaxed. I just remember you as unhappy, always striving for something you didn't have."

"Oh, I gave up on striving years ago," said Draco lightly. But Potter continued to look at him with an intense gaze, so he attempted to give a more serious answer. "One day I just realised that it didn't matter what I wanted. Nobody cared, and nobody was going to help me," he shrugged. "It's been easier, in a way. I live without caring about the expectations of others, without the struggle to be more than I am."

Potter reached out and touched Draco's arm. "Whoever you are now, I think I like you," he said, not taking his eyes away from Draco's face.

"Potter—"

"Oh, I think you can call me Harry now," said Potter, his eyes still holding Draco's.

"Harry," said Draco, gently removing Potter – Harry's – hand. "You don't want to get involved with me. I'm not worth it."

He knew, as he spoke, that he was lying; he wanted this, he did. But it wasn't what was supposed to happen. He had his life, the pattern of his days, and there was no room for Harry Potter in it. And yet he could still feel the warmth of that brief touch on his arm.

"Well, maybe I should be allowed to find that out for myself?" said Potter.

Draco was getting lost in the depths of eyes which just wouldn't leave him alone. Points of light were reflected in them, and the gaze was relentless.

"There's too much history between us," said Draco with as much conviction as he could muster, but his voice was beginning to shake.

"Who cares?" asked Potter. "Don't you feel this too?" he whispered and he reached up to stroke Draco's face with his hand. Draco began to shiver, his body trembling at the touch. "We're too old to care what people think, or to let go any chance of happiness. C'mon. Trust me," he said.

Draco could hear his heart beating, and nothing else.

"Yes," the word escaped Draco as the barest of sounds, but it was enough. He wasn't sure what he was saying yes to – being touched, forgetting about the world, or just taking this chance for something which might end terribly, but which filled him with excitement all the same.

He leant down, and kissed the lips which had been taunting him all day. Draco could taste the trace of sweat on skin, the kick of firewhisky, and something more. Something... Harry. He sat back. "Yes," he said again, his voice surer if not more steady, and then he felt a strong, capable hand pulling him close, and they kissed again. It had been so long, and he had almost forgotten just how good it felt, the scrape of stubble against stubble, the firm pressure of arms holding onto him, the hard edges of another man's body. The heat, building and rising between them.

They sank down on the blanket, and suddenly Draco was overwhelmed with the need to _know_ this man lying with him. He knew Potter, but he wanted to possess Harry. He ran his lips over the fluttering skin at Harry's neck, breathing in the smell of hard work and sun, his tongue darting out to taste it too. Draco sighed the name 'Harry' into the warm skin, over and over again, as he kissed it. Harry's mouth sought out his again, and they kissed until they were both grinding into each other, their erections hot and insistent, their thin robes not much of a barrier between them.

Draco wanted more. He wanted so much more, and he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to have enough. The thought scared him, so he ignored it, and concentrated on heat, friction, and pressure instead. Soon his thoughts were scattered, and they seemed unimportant. Who cared about thinking when there was this?

Harry groaned, and the sound shot straight to Draco's cock. _Too many clothes_ , he managed as a semi-coherent thought, and within seconds a whispered _Evanesco_ had vanished all of Harry's. Harry gasped with shock, and shivered, but then Draco ran his hand across the chest he had admired earlier that day, around the nipples and then down to thick curls and the soft-hard heat of the erection rising from them. Looking down, he saw how his fingers curled around Harry's cock, and he watched as he began to move his hand. A low squeak made him look up, and he almost stopped moving when he saw Harry, with his eyes closed, and his teeth biting down on his lip. His face was contorted with strain, and Draco brushed it with his lips, trying to kiss the tension away.

"Let go," Draco whispered, and with a whimper Harry was suddenly pulsing in his hands, wet come streaming onto Draco's robe.

"Oh, Merlin," said Harry, his voice cracking slightly. His face was flushed, but looking at it Draco felt a quiet satisfaction that the strain he'd seen before had gone.

"I'm just that much of a man, am I?" he asked, and he kissed Harry gently. Draco felt Harry's lips twitch upwards into a smile against his, and the kiss became a languorous affair, tongues roaming and tasting. Harry began to move his hands across Draco's body, until one came to rest on the bulge of his straining erection. "You can still show me just how much of a man you are," he said.

Draco took this to be a challenge, and he quickly pulled off his robes and straddled Harry, pinning down his arms as he leant close to his face and whispered "Is that so?" before taking Harry's ear lobe in his teeth, and pulling gently. He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath. Harry's competitive spirit must have been awakened, because suddenly Draco found himself being flipped over, and he was the one on his back as Harry's face hovered just above his.

"I didn't say I was going to make it _easy_ for you, did I?" he whispered, and he began a torturously slow descent down to Draco's neck, which he kissed, then sucked, hard. Draco felt a dark thrill at the possessive marking. It wasn't just _him_ who felt that way then.

Harry continued on a meandering path down Draco's body, while Draco listened to the air as it made its way in and out of his lungs in long, ragged bursts. Harry paused for a moment when he got to the thin scar, a pale line of silver in the lamplight, which ran across Draco's chest, then wordlessly kissed an apology along it. The slightest of night breezes travelled across Draco's saliva-wet skin in a shiver, and then he was squirming as Harry began licking small circles on Draco's stomach.

Harry looked up once, a flash of intent in his eyes, and then he sucked Draco deep into his mouth, and Draco let out a startled cry, even though he had known this was going to happen. It was just so... he couldn't put it into words. It wasn't just the physical sensations, it was the _thought_ of this happening. No wonder Harry had come so quickly. Draco's heart was pounding in his chest as Harry moved his head, his mouth; his tongue swirling and dipping.

Suddenly he felt cold air envelop him, and then Harry was sitting up, licking his hand and sucking his fingers before reaching behind himself. Draco was fascinated by the expression on Harry's face, half-lit by the faint flicker of candles in the lanterns floating in the air around them. Harry's eyes were closed, and his lips slightly parted. Combined with his air of concentration, Draco was lost. He couldn't remember it being like this, with anyone. He didn't know if it was his age, being outside under the stars, or just that thin line between passion and hatred which his relationship with Harry had wasn't sure how much it was Harry that thrilled him, and how much it was _Potter_ instead. But lying there, goosebumps rising on his skin and his cock slick and hard, he didn't care. Nothing mattered, apart from what was about to follow.

Harry's eyes opened, just enough for him to look at Draco through his dark lashes. Draco could see that Harry was already halfway to somewhere else, and Draco wanted to be there too. With a growl he sat up and pulled Harry into a kiss which was so fierce it left a taste of blood in his mouth. He pushed Harry down to the ground and rolled him over at the same time. Harry understood straight away, his arse rising into the air as he moved onto his hands and knees. This wasn't about tenderness or love or beauty, it was about feeding the fire Harry had lit in his body.

"I don't think this is going to take very long," Draco muttered under his breath.

"Well then hurry up already," Harry moaned back.

Draco huffed and lined himself and slowly pushed himself in. Tight heat held him, and then he was moving. He closed his eyes and held on as he thrust forward, again and again, with such force that he felt the two of them shoved forward across the ground. His heart was now thundering against his rib cage, and he was right: it didn't take long. Draco's last thought before his breath was caught in a vise and he came, was that he was lost. He cried out as he orgasmed and fell forward against Harry.

There was a crash and something brushed across his face. As Draco got his breath back, he risked opening his eyes. He was stretched across Harry's back, and they were both half in what had been a neat row of beanstalks, climbing round and up canes. His face was pressed into leaves and flowers, and he could see some runner beans dangling just in front of him. He moved back quickly, pulling out of Harry as he did so, and sat back on his heels, horrified.

"Are you ok, Harry?" he asked, and he could see Harry's back begin to shake. Harry rolled over, and Draco realised that he was shaking with laughter. He was laughing so hard, no sound was coming out. Draco stared at him, shocked,

"You– you fucking fucked me into my own beans, you fucker!" Harry managed to gasp in the end, his eyes squeezing shut as tears began to form at their corners. Draco maintained an affronted look for about a second, then felt his own laughter rise up from deep within, until he too had tears running down his face and his side was aching.

As the hysteria passed, Draco lay down next to Harry, his head in the dirt and the crushed plants too. He turned to face Harry, and they stared at each other. A wave of warmth washed over Draco as he raised his hand to brush a smudge of soil off Harry's cheek, and he then moved his thumb and brushed it along Harry's lips. Harry smiled and kissed the thumb tenderly.

"No wonder you don't give any interviews, if they end like this," murmured Draco. Harry leant forward and kissed him before answering.

"I'd have done one sooner, if I'd realised," said Harry, and Draco felt that possessive urge again, except this time it wasn't about knowing or a name or passion. It was about wanting to stay in this warmth, stay looking into these eyes. It terrified Draco a little, even though he could admit that it was a pretty good place to be, but he still pulled back a fraction, overwhelmed. His knees ached, and he suddenly felt a hundred little nagging protests from his body.

"I'm too old for this," he muttered to himself, and a sudden look of panic crossed Harry. "Not for you, you idiot. For sex in vegetable plots," he said. Harry's face relaxed. And in that moment, looking at Harry's open expression, Draco decided he could live with a little bit of terror. It was a price worth paying, for... this, whatever this was.

"Is that so? I happen to have a rather marvellous bed that you might want to try," said Harry, smiling. Draco pretended to consider it, and Harry pretended to hold his breath.

"That depends: do you have a decent shower, too?" asked Draco.

"The best shower you will ever have seen," said Harry, smiling broadly. "And a personal washing assistant."

"In that case it sounds perfect, lead the way," said Draco. And Harry pulled him up then they made their way, hand in hand and naked, to Harry's house, a hot shower and a comfortable bed.

oOo

At the sound of voices, Draco stopped. Standing on the neat lawn, he knew he was out of sight, and he paused, uncertain. He'd missed Harry, surprisingly so, when he'd been in London to submit his article and sort a few things out. Coming back here, to the quiet drip of water off leaves and everywhere the smell of earth after rain, was more like a homecoming than his return to the empty flat had been.

Even though there was plenty about this thing they had together that still made him sick with uncertainty, Draco had rushed to get back, desperate to see Harry — no, to _touch_ Harry again. All he'd talked about with Cuffe, and his friends, had been Harry, but that had mostly been him fending off questions about the great recluse. What he wanted was the touch of skin, the warmth of closeness. And that didn't include anyone else. He had not pictured anyone other than Harry being here when he got back.

He heard Longbottom's voice, and sighed.

"So you two are together now?" Longbottom was asking. "Really, you and Malfoy?" This was the reaction Draco had already received from his friends. Although they had sounded slightly less... disappointed. "I did not see that coming. Not at all," Longbottom said, and then he paused. "Are you sure, Harry?" he asked, his voice quiet and worried.

"Yes, I'm sure," Harry said. Draco felt his heart begin to beat a little faster, at both the warmth and the steel in Harry's voice. "I'm not quite sure how this happened but it did," Harry added. Draco smiled as he heard the shrug in his voice. He could picture Harry, affecting an air of nonchalance, but with a hard glint in his eye. He didn't know why, but the thought was more reassuring to him than any running out to greet him with wide-open arms could have been.

He thought this might be the time to make his presence known; he didn't need to give Harry more ammunition about spying.

"Oh don't worry, I haven't done anything to him," Draco said, as he climbed the steps, grinning at the expression on Longbottom's face. "He's still the grouch you know and love. It just turns out that we quite enjoy being grouchy together."

"Oh, hello, Malfoy," said Longbottom, looking a little trapped. Panicked, even. But Draco only spared him the briefest of glances, because all he could really see was Harry. Harry was stood by his raised planters, one hand resting on the side. When he saw Draco his fingers gripped the wood tightly, but he just dipped his head with a small smile.

"Draco," he said.

"Harry," Draco answered with a smile. He could feel the now-familiar churning of warmth and insecurity deep in his gut. He couldn't bring himself to move any closer though, so he just stared.

"Ok," said Longbottom after a moment, his voice strained. "I see it now." Draco looked over to see his head snapping back and forth between the two of them. Before either he or Harry could say anything though, Longbottom cleared his throat and spoke. "I don't exactly understand, but I see it. And um, I'm glad, for you both," he glanced down and shuffled his feet, shifting his weight awkwardly. He looked up at Draco. "And for what it's worth, I read your article, and it was ok."

"Thank you," said Draco with a smile, but stopped when he saw the look of pure wickedness on Harry's face.

"Oh yes, the article," Harry said. Draco held his breath. He'd shown it to Harry before he left, but he knew it was different seeing it in print and hearing other people's reaction too.

" _In the seven years since he retired from public life, not much has been seen of Harry Potter. After years in the spotlight, including his very public marriage and subsequent divorce, his absence has, for many, marked the end of the post-war renaissance in the British wizarding life, and a return to a more quiet way of living,_ " Harry declaimed.

Draco stared at Harry, then turned to Longbottom for an explanation.

"Your boyfriend's memorised the whole bloody thing," said Longbottom with a sigh. "I still haven't worked out if he's proud or pissed off, but I do know that he entertained _everyone_ in the Crown and Key the other night, once he'd had a few."

Draco eyes widened at the image, and turned back to Harry, who grinned at him, and continued reciting from the article.

" _There is a corner of the world where Potter is still well-known though, not for his ability to fight Dark wizards, but for another reason entirely. In South Devon, where he has lived since his retirement, Potter is known as a champion vegetable grower. For the past few years, indeed, his long carrots have proven medal-worthy and he now has five 'Devon and Cornwall Magical Vegetable Fayre: Best Carrot' awards to hang alongside his Order of Merlin, should he wish_."

"Harry," warned Draco, but Harry didn't seem to care. Draco was confused, but then understanding began to seep through. The bastard had worked out how to use his own words against him. "This doesn't mean you've won this one," muttered Draco.

"Doesn't it?" said Harry. He turned back to Longbottom. "That's not even my favourite bit. My _favourite_ bit is when he says:

" _Harry Potter has changed since the boy I remember from Hogwarts. He is calmer, and his words are more measured. Having seen his beautiful garden and the attention he pays it, I can perhaps understand why. He is passionate about growing long carrots for competition, and has plenty to share with me about the popular orange vegetables._ "

Harry grinned. "Popular orange vegetables?" he asked. "Really?"

"Stop it!" said Draco, although he knew it was a terrible line. "That's my work you're talking about. I wouldn't joke about your– your tomatoes now, would I?" Harry raised an eyebrow, and Draco smiled. "Ok, I might," he said.

"Sorry," said Harry. "I'll try to take you a bit more seriously." Draco didn't believe a word of it, but he suddenly realised that this was just Harry's way of coping with the attention: it was simply easier to deflect it back onto Draco. And that was ok, Draco understood.

"That reminds me of a joke," said Neville suddenly. They both groaned, but he ignored them and launched straight into his story.

"A wizard's garden is growing beautifully but his tomatoes won't ripen. So he asks his incredibly wise gardening friend—", Harry laughed at this, and Longbottom glared at him before continuing, "—'Your tomatoes always ripen so beautifully, but mine don't at all. What do I need to do?' His friend replies, 'Well, it may sound absurd but here's what to do. Tonight there's no moon. After dark go out into your garden and take all your clothes off. Tomatoes can see in the dark and they'll be embarrassed and blush. In the morning they'll all be red, you'll see.' The wizard thinks it's a little odd, but his friend is incredibly successful, so why not? He does it. The next day the friend asks how it worked. 'So-so,' he answers, 'The tomatoes are still green but the cucumbers are all four inches longer.'"

There was a shocked silence, the unspoken words _Neville Longbottom_ _told a funny joke_ hanging in the air, then they started to laugh. Longbottom beamed with pride, and accepted their comments with grace.

When he left, he told Harry to enjoy his last day as first prize winner, then he happily shook hands with Draco.

"Look," said Longbottom, glancing over at Harry. "I can see he's happy. He hasn't come to the pub with me for years, and then he made such a completely wonderful tit of himself–" he broke off, a fond look on his face. "Anyway, I popped into the Crown and Key yesterday, and there's a framed copy of the photo from the article behind the bar. It was charmed to appear still to Muggles, and Madge was proudly showing it off to everyone who came in." He looked at Draco and said in a low voice, "Thank you, it's nice to see Harry like this." Draco stared after him as he walked away, and blinked.

Draco turned back to Harry, who smiled at him for a long moment, then held up his wand. "Watch this," he said, a look of boyish enthusiasm on his face, and he pointed it at the delicate green leaves growing beside him. Draco watched in astonishment as one of the plants began to wobble, and then rose into the air. Harry then very, very slowly, began to ease it out of the sandy soil. At the first glimpse of orange, Draco remembered that these were his carrot plants. As more and more slender carrot appeared, he realised just why these were _prize_ carrots. He held his breath as Harry, tongue peeking out between lips clenched tight together, pulled the final, long wispy end of the carrot free from the soil. Draco let out a loud breath in relief, and Harry turned his head and smiled.

"I should hex you for sneaking into my garden again. Or maybe kiss you," he said. "But I don't want to damage my carrot." Despite himself, Draco felt a smile tug at his lips.

"No, we wouldn't want that to happen, would we," he murmured.

"Oh honestly, Draco, you really do have a one-track mind," Harry said, rolling his eyes, but then he grinned. "Although I was thinking more about what happened to my runner beans," he said, looking over mournfully at the now bedraggled patch. "That was a tricky one to explain to Nev," he muttered, and Draco laughed. Harry smiled, then turned his attentions back to his carrot. It certainly was long – it looked to be at least three feet in length. Harry ran his hand tenderly along it, his fingers wrapped loosely around its width.

"What are you doing?" asked Draco.

"Checking that it's straight," answered Harry, without looking up. "Well don't just stand there, help me out." Draco didn't move. "Come here, you pathetic urbanite, and I'll tell you what to do."

Draco moved closer, unsure about what he could actually do to help.

"Get your wand out," said Harry, and he fixed Draco with a steady stare when he snickered.

"Sorry," Draco mumbled, and held his wand up. "It must be Longbottom's influence. What now?"

"We need to wash the carrot. A simple _Aguamenti_ should do it." Tentatively, Draco moved his wand and ran water along the length of the carrot, watching as Harry kept turning it until it was clean. "Ah, lovely," Harry said, beaming as he admired his handiwork.

"Yes, lovely," said Draco, as he watched a spark of pride light Harry's face, not just his mouth smiling, but the creases of his eyes too. All he could feel now was warmth; this was where he wanted to be. Harry glanced up and blushed when he saw the look on Draco's face, and leant forward, very carefully over his carrot, and kissed him gently on the lips.

"I'm glad that you're back," he said softly.

"Me too," said Draco. "I didn't want to miss your big day tomorrow."

Harry moved his carrot to a long shallow box that was lying to one side. "Do you want to help me with the rest?" he asked, and Draco nodded. Harry showed him how he chose carrots based on their shoulders – the first bit of orange he uncovered – and that he was searching for a well matched set.

An hour or so later, there were a dozen long carrots in the box, which was now sitting on the kitchen table. Draco prodded a carrot with his finger.

"I'm beginning to feel a little inadequate," he said.

"Oh, shut up," said Harry. "You know that you're perfectly fine. Although how anyone thinks they could ever compare to one of my carrots..." he sniffed.

"Maybe I should try growing them. I could compete against you," said Draco brightly. He intended it as a joke, but seeing Harry's face dart up with a hopeful tremble on his lip, he actually considered it for a moment. "I bet mine would be longer than yours," he said with a straight face. "And taste better than Longbottom's too," he added with a grin, and then they were both laughing, and Harry showed him how to finish preparing the carrots, jabbering on about trimming leaves, schedule specifications and the importance of presentation, while stealing kisses and occasionally the odd grope.

Draco decided that he could, in fact, learn to like the world of competitive vegetable growing after all.


End file.
